


Noire et Blanche

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Fastlane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-25
Updated: 2005-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:00:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for Nifra Idril</p>
    </blockquote>





	Noire et Blanche

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Nifra Idril

 

 

On some level, Van realized that most people would find the day to day shit in his life kind of hard to swallow. Maybe, someday that would change. Maybe someday he'd hit a point where he'd been at the Candy Store long enough that each time he thought he'd really fucking seen it all, the universe didn't decide he needed some sort of cosmic smack down. In the meantime, he was just going to make the hard to swallow stuff go down easier with a stiff drink. And man, could he use one of those right now. Because this--this was fucking surreal.

You know, surreal, as in when clocks looked like any second now they might actually start melting their asses right off the walls. Fuck the lion and the lamb shit. Right now he was trying to figure out where the hell this Deaq came from, because he sure as hell bore no resemblance to the man Van thought he knew.

There was a time he thought that the thing with the lesbians had been surreal. There was a time the thought of being in a room with gay men would have freaked him the fuck out. And there was also just maybe a time when he could still deny why exactly it was that men in tight pants freaked him out.

That time was long gone. Over and done. The game was in the refrigerator: the door was closed, the lights were out, the eggs were cooling, the butter was getting hard, and the Jell-o was jigglin'. Because Van was officially in the Twilight Zone.

Having this mark, Bettencourt, doubt that he was with Deaq had pissed him off. It was maybe the adrenaline of that anger that had carried him through the first kiss. Yeah, that was it. Adrenaline. Adrenaline, and anger, and their cover, and yeah. Because otherwise he was going to have to accept that this man pressed up against him, his partner, was seriously turning him on.

It had been so much fucking easier on the last queer case when Deaq was vamping shit up, all limp wrists and lispy voice so high Van would have sworn somebody had his bad ass balls in a vice grip.

This Deaq, the one currently playing the role of Shomari Jones, wasn't the least bit feminine anywhere that Van could find. When this Bettencourt guy challenged Van's credentials and made like he was going to see just how far Van would go, Deaq had stepped between the two of them, put a hand on Van's chest, and told the mark to keep his fucking hands off his property.

Van had actually done a double take, shocked by the possessiveness in Deaq's tone. He'd still been reeling from that when Deaq had laid a kiss on him. Nothing fey or hesitant about it. One second Van had been trying to figure out if he was going to need to go for his gun when things went wrong, and the next Deaq's tongue was halfway down his throat and Van couldn't do anything but go along with it. When he'd finally been released, he found himself short of breath and looking a near stranger in the face. The man looked like Deaq, but Van found himself wondering who he was. He was still trying to figure that out when he realized that he was still pressed up against him. That even in the cool air on the deck overlooking the ocean as the sun set, with evening breezes coming up, there was a fine sheen of sweat on Deaq's ripped arms, shown off by the tight tank top. In the fading light, there were stark angles and spartan lines, and it was different, being here, up against Deaq, the two of them men who were hard in all kinds of places Van hadn't really wanted to admit to thinking about.

He couldn't make the words out, but he could hear Bettencourt in the background, saying something that made clear he still wasn't convinced, and it was all on him now. This would have been a lot easier without the realization that he'd liked it swirling around in his head, but he felt a shudder of nervous tension run through Deaq's body, and that brought him back, grounded him. There was still danger. They could be found out. Their cover blown. They were still partners--still had a job to do. So he could do this.

Van swallowed once, and then looked for something familiar in the deep brown eyes he was looking into. This was it. Time to switch or cut bait.

And wow was that an unfortunate thought. _Switch_ and _bait_ weren't exactly the words he wanted running through his head when he felt like a toy being dangled out there for some asshole's kink.

He could do this. He could so totally do this.

What? He could.

He looked up and swore Deaq was smirking, the mother fucking di--

He had to do this.

Warmth. Deaq's hand pressed firmly against his lower back. There was tension there. Uncertainty that ran through the perplexed stance of the body in front of him.

He closed his eyes and leaned in. Billie was so going to owe him for this.

**Two days earlier . . .**

The radio called days like this Chamber of Commerce days, and cruising down the 101, Van could see why. Or, more precisely, he could see mountains. Everywhere. In every fucking direction he looked, there they were. Jagged peaks, outcroppings of exposed rock, a ring of picturesque hills that made the place seem like it was reaching for something greater than itself. In the distance, some of them even looked like they might have snow on top. What with it being winter and all, that made sense. He just sometimes forgot that they were there at all. Forgot that snow was even possible within a hundred mile radius of this false paradise carved out of desert turned into a fake oasis with the water it stole from all over the west. Water that trickled down and over the ring of mountains that most days were just vanished to nothingness. Hidden like they were for most of the year under the smog.

He downshifted, admiring the purr he was getting from the Lotus's engine. It seemed a crime to rein her in, but all the high performance tires in the world couldn't take the interchange from the 101 to the 110 heading into downtown at the speeds her engine could handle. At least, not if you weren't little high, a little suicidal, and a little stupid. Or, in other words, a day over 18. Still, it was a sweet ride to be trying out, which was maybe the only reason he had the windows down and the radio up and was enjoying the drive in, because it was supposed to be his day off, and he'd had plans to take this little lady--the car, not a chick--up the 1 toward and through Malibu as far as he could go. It was maybe only the gorgeous, sunny, December Chamber of Commerce day that had improved his mood when Billie called him in. Well, okay, and the lack of traffic, and the way the engine gathered its legs underneath itself as it downshifted. The Lotus's engine was about tightly-leashed power, like a thoroughbred held back for that last workout the day before the race. If the car could wait, Van figured he could too.

He took the exit too fast, relishing the little thrill down his spine as the tires almost lost contact with the pavement. He was just this side of pushing past what was safe. He liked to push the car too hard on the exit ramp, because the drive into the Candy Store was something he could almost do in his sleep. It didn't even require thought to make the turns he needed down one street and then up another until he found himself swinging the car into a parking space just outside his destination. Then he was out of the car listening to the reassuring noise the alarm system made behind him and in the door before his skin even had a chance to register the change in temperature.

Inside, Deaq was draped over the couch scowling in the general direction of Billie, which didn't make much sense. Because Deaq, for all his babbling about a life outside the job, didn't scowl at Billie over losing a day off. Hayes understood what this life meant, and Van couldn't quite figure out what would put him in that foul a mood, especially given the car he'd parked next to on the way in.

The Panoz Esperante. A convertible model, no less, and Van knew how very much Deaq had wanted to get behind the wheel of that baby and take it out for a spin. In a town where cars people in Nebraska only heard of as rumors were as common as Toyotas, the Panoz Esperante was a rare enough nameplate to turn heads. Deaq had been angling to get one into the Candy Store for months.

So the scowl didn't make much sense.

Van leaped over the back of the couch and landed with a thunk next to Deaq. "So, Billie, what's so important that you pulled your two favorite agents away from some quality time with their favorite high end rides?"

Her left eyebrow raised, and she opened her mouth as if to say something, then she stopped herself as if she'd thought better of it. He really, really wished she wouldn't do that. Van wondered if he'd ever get to hear Billie, the Uncut Version. "Since you two are my only two agents, I'm not exactly sure--"

Van elbowed Deaq. "See, she's clearly just in denial about how much she loves us." He folded his arms and sat back with a smug grin.

Deaq stared back at Van as if he had three heads. "Or something."

Van pursed his lips and sucked in. "Ouch, partner, that hurts me. Boss, do you see what he's like? Isn't this some kind of workplace harassment, beating up on my poor, sad little ego like this?"

Without so much as an eye roll or a cleared throat, Billie continued. "It seems that there's an influx of meth on the street. Some new concoction that's causing all sorts of trouble. We've got a lead on where it may be coming from, and we need to get people in now, or we'll lose the trail. I know you were supposed to have the day off, and I'm choosing to look the other way about any resources that you might have appropriated from work, so in return, you two have a party to go to tonight."

Van swayed back and forth to an imagined beat, moving his shoulders in time to music only he could hear. "So, what hip, happenin' spot we going to tonight, boss? This as good as that time we went to Milk, and wow, that was a learning experience."

Deaq was laughing. "Man, stop it with the white boy overbite, will you? You can't dance without several drinks in you. You know this, or you should."

"This," Van said, "is especially rich coming from a man who seems to think that line dancing is an acceptable way of passing time on a date night."

"At least I can find the line and get on it, Disco Boy. To say nothing of having a date. With something other than my right hand."

"Gentlemen," Billie said, handing over two pieces of card stock printed with overdone invitations--too many colors, too much foil--on the front, "you can argue about the finer points of dancing later. New club opening in Hollywood. Place called Man Ray."

Van grinned. "See, man, it's fate. It's, like, close to my name. This is going to go well. I can feel it. In my bones."

Deaq rolled his eyes. "It is not fate. It's just proof that the people naming you needed to get their sorry asses out more. The club is named for the artist, and you hardly look like the type to have violin looking shit tattooed on your lanky-ass back."

Billie seemed amused though it was hard to tell because she was still in boss mode. "It's a private party sort of thing, for the new, redone club just opening in the Chateau Marmont. The clientele will be dressing to impress, and we need you two to blend in. Some of the stuff we just got in might be wearable. I want you both in new looks so you blend in." She stood up from her half-perch on the edge of the desk. "And be sure to check in after the opening. The folks over in vice seem to think it's a pretty open and shut case. That some Russian guy--Alexei Petrovich--is running the ring, but I don't think the connection is going to turn out to be so clear. I've read Petrovich's file, and I just don't think he's got enough initiative or smarts to be masterminding whatever is going on with this new meth. Besides, cases that vice willingly drops in our laps usually end up here because somebody over there has a gut feeling that things are going to get messy before they're done."

Van looked over at Deaq. "She said `our laps,' man. Think that means--"

Deaq stood up and grabbed Van's shirt by the collar. "That means we need to get to work, and you need to stop thinking like a fifteen year old. Billie, you should hear from us by 5 am at the latest, even if one of us is just calling from the car. You got any ideas about whether we go in solo or together?"

She smiled as she strode behind the desk. "We don't really have that much 411, so I'm afraid you're on your own in terms of choosing the cover you're going to go with this round. But on the one hand, the hotel is in WeHo, and we're talking about meth. On the other, I'd rather spare you the embarrassment of having another bear laughing his ass off at you, so--"

Her hand made vague circles in the air.

Deaq snorted. "Some days I think it'd just be easier if you let me go in as a leather daddy with junior here on a leash."

Van rolled his eyes. "It is so not my fault I look better in a collar than you do."

**Seven Hours Later . . .**

Van didn't think he was going to have any trouble playing the part of a slightly down on his luck guy trying to hustle his way into the inner circles of people who might be able to hook him up with some sort of vaguely legal job that would bring in an obscene amount of money. Going trolling among the high rollers was something he'd practically spent his life doing. The vaguely legal part came to him as naturally as breathing.

It was the backup plan that had him nervous. In the event that they needed to make nice with the queer boys, he was going to have to play the mostly straight man to Deaq's fag self, and just the memories of encountering that particular incarnation of his partner make him want to laugh. Doing that straight, so to speak, was going to be a problem.

And also, no matter what Billie said or thought, he didn't really like wearing his pants quite this tight, even if his ass did look better in them.

Still, when he rolled out of the Lotus and handed his keys to the valet, his mask was firmly in place. The yellow sunglasses, the half open shirt that had barely rested in some little boutique for a few hours before going home with him, all gave off the air he needed to pull this off.

The soles of his shoes were still slick with lack of use, and he had to concentrate as he made his way across the marble floor to the door of the club, where he handed his invite to the bruiser with the clipboard. He was selling the cover every single second, even in the condescending way he seemed not to register the guy's face. Admittedly, he was relieved that the guy didn't seem to register in his internal databanks of dudes to watch out for.

Bruiser guy gave Van, currently going by the name Brando Fiorel, that head jerk thing guys use in lieu of having to talk. With no words at all. Van didn't bother to return the nod and instead turned his attention to finding the in he needed to get to where he needed to be. It was easy enough to follow the pulsing sound of the music leaking out from around the careful soundproofing. Music had a nasty tendency to do that what with the door open. In fact, the door seemed open as wide as it would go, with a collection of people who certainly thought they were beautiful leaking out around the edges. Full light tended not to look so good on people who dressed for the dim half-shadows of a club. Out here, even in the hotel's artful lighting, the makeup was a little too harsh, the colors a little too bright. Their outfits might have been truly flattering on them if they'd been about ten years younger, but like most things in LA, these people refused to give up and go gracefully into something other than the cult of the twenty-something. Most of the men seriously seemed to think that at fifty it was still okay to be trying to dress like they could still look cool on a motorcycle. It was especially disconcerting when the fifty somethings were trailing dates who looked like they had ID that only _said_ they were twenty something.

But that was another bust for another night. These folks looked far too hungry for cameras to be the people he and Deaq needed to find.

For good measure, he groped the ass of the woman who would probably swear she was thirty nine, even if she had been in a holding pattern at that number for the last seven or so years, on the way through the door. When she complained, he flashed a dazzling smile and apologized, even as he pulled the glasses down his nose and feigned a thorough inventory of her from head to toe until her preening smile leaked out from behind the insulted scowl.

Stepping in through the doorway into the darkened den that was the Man Ray shifted him into that other world, where all that mattered was the throb of music sampled and mixed within an inch of its life. It didn't take much practice, even if he'd had plenty of it, to thread his way to the bar, where a strategically placed left elbow began to pry the throngs apart long enough for him to lean in and order a double Grey Goose on the rocks. The bartender was a hot, ripped chick in a tight tank top made out of a fabric that was stretchy, shiny, and hadn't ever met a natural fiber in its life. The cut of the tank showed off delts he'd like to use for body shots and maybe other things. She poured two more than generous shots into the old fashioned glass and handed it over. Van made sure to give her his best sleazeball smile and leave a big tip. No matter his cover, it never hurt to keep the bartender on his side.

He knocked the drink back, and before he could even finish the sentence, she was already pouring him a second. After leaving a second tip just in case he had to come back this way, he picked the glass up and moved away from the bar. The files he'd barely had time to glance over suggested that this Joseph Bettencourt character probably wasn't going to be near the first bar.   
More likely in the VIP room, and Van was going to have to find his way in there. Van had no problem doing so. Brando Fiorel was going to have a bit more trouble. But probably not that much.

Brando made his way towards the buxom brunette whose bodacious bosom was threatening to bolt from its less than secure moorings in a tiny strip of fabric that wanted to be a halter top if it ever grew up. And maybe that should have been a signal, since he didn't start the alliteration thing, usually, until he was halfway to pleasantly buzzed. Still, she should provide easy entre to the VIP room if Brando played his cards right.

Brando was just that slick.

**Twenty minutes later. . .**

It was fucking unnerving to see Deaq like that. Van wasn't quite sure exactly what _like that_ was, but it was sure as fuck different from Deaq in the office, and this Deaq bore not even a passing resemblance to the Deaq outside the dyke bar.

It was hard to find any trace of the Deaq he knew in the hard man in front of him. His partner, the one he'd gotten shot at with for the last year or so, had done a whole hell of a lot better than Van at keeping a straight face as they texted each other stupid shit to distract each other from the miserably sad creaking of the Russian slob giving it to some bimbo in the bed they were hiding under. The Deaq he knew couldn't even bring himself to kiss another man, and yet the body that looked vaguely like Deaq's that was currently going by the name Shomari Jones, was clearly not at all uncomfortable with kissing or a whole hell of a lot else. Because when Van as Brando, and Bambi or Laci or Perky or whatever the bimbo's name was walked into the VIP room, he looked over to see the man known as Shomari Jones lounging on a couch in a sprawl with some lithe, shirtless, blonde guy kneeling between his legs nuzzling Deaq in places Van seriously had never thought about seeing like that. That would have been disturbing on its own, but as it was, Deaq was zipping up, right there, and the guy was wiping his mouth. Holy fuck, what the hell was that about?

The whole thing would be a lot less distressing if Van hadn't met Deaq's eyes as he walked in the door, and seen Deaq flinch for a second when he realized whose eyes he was meeting. On top of that, Laci (who Van was pretty sure signed that stupid ass shit with a heart over the I, because he knew it was spelled with an I, because any chick stupid enough to rename her self Laci and think it was classy would do that brainless shit) had been standing next to him squealing about how "hawt that fine looking black dude" was, right up until the point that Deaq--Deaq Mr. Street Luge and Country Music Man--leaned over and kissed the twink.

Van honestly hadn't been prepared for that, because there wasn't even a taste of the campy gay thing Deaq had pulled outside of Milk that night on that fucked up case with the Santa Monicas. This was a brutal kiss, all hard angles and desperate need, and Van had to blink twice to make sure he hadn't been slipped some sort of hallucinogenic mickey in his drink.

You know, the kind that made everything around you look queer as a three dollar bill.

He'd seriously thought that Deaq was just talking shit about that leather daddy thing, but apparently he wasn't.

It was, of course, a purely professional need for information gathering that made Van want to get close enough to see if the twink was high. Brando, however, was supposed to be casing the joint, making a play to get closer to anything that looked like someone who was going to be looking for someone to help move the meth to the straight crowd. Brando's back story was that he'd gotten scared out of San Bernardino when he cops there were too close to his tail, so he'd moved to the big city looking to find work with someone new. The plan he'd hatched with Deaq if it turned out that they needed an in to the gay boy network was for Brando to get shot down--not a problem for Van to manage. Then Brando the twit would get a little too drunk, which would create an opening for Shomari Jones, the butchest gay dude west of the Mississippi, to swoop in to take advantage. Assuming the intel turned out to be as full of shit as it usually was, coming from the fuck ups in vice, and they needed a cover to get them into the whole queer scene.

Of course, if by some stroke of divine intervention, vice got it right, and it was the Russian guy, Van would have to make nice and Deaq would have just kissed some fag after he blew him for nothing. The shit they did for the job.

Sure enough, the intel was right about one thing. Petrovich did have a thing for the bimbo set, because exactly seventeen seconds after Brando and Laci walked up the stairs behind the velvet rope, a slightly pale man with the build of a cornerback plus vodka belly was striding over. Van thought it was a bit much the way he snapped at someone in his entourage and a round of drinks magically appeared on a tray in the hands of some nameless, faceless member of a wait staff who'd mastered the fine art of being utterly invisible.

"I don't think I've seen either of you here before," Petrovich said, extending a hand toward Van, who waited a beat before returning the gesture. Van already wanted to throttle the guy, but Brando would be more cautiously intrigued. Petrovich would seem to reek of power to a low-level guy like Fiorel. Corrupt, rotting results of power gone wrong, but power nonetheless.

"Brando Fiorel. This is--"

"Laci DeZoete, nice to meet you, Mr.--" Insert obligatory expectant pause from totally obvious goldigger here, Van thought. And how could her saccharine voice get any more grating?

"Laci," Petrovich said as he kissed her hand. "What a feminine name for such a delicate woman. I'm Alexei. Alexei Petrovich. The pleasure," his eyes moved over to Van as if sizing up his competition, "is all mine, I assure you."

When she giggled, Van got the answer to that question about how Laci's voice could get more annoying. Frankly, he could have lived and died happy never knowing that particular answer.

Sleazeball's voice faded back in. "I'm always happy to see attractive new faces at one of my clubs."

Van just bet he was. And that pretty faces weren't all Petrovich was looking at. It was going to be a long night.

**Five Hours Later . . .**

Van had completely underestimated a couple of key things. First, he'd had no idea that anyone whose primary location for weight seemed to be her boobs could actually hold that much liquor before she started to go fuzzy--well, okay, fuzzier--around the edges. Laci might be cheap, but she sure as fuck wasn't a cheap date.

Second, the intel did indeed suck ass. Petrovich was a bit player. He might have moved the meth with the wacky side effects, but Billie was right. No way this chump had the brains or the initiative to start messing with a new variety.

So he'd made the kind of chit chat that passed for nice among sleazeballs. They'd done some vodka shots. And Van had been treated to a long diatribe about why Polish vodka was clearly inferior to Russian. Like he gave a shit. He did manage to signal to Deaq that Petrovich wasn't their mark, at which point he'd tried to appear interested in Laci's talk about wanting to be an actress--big shock there--while he actually watched Deaq take his twink on a leash with him as he approached the other possible mark they were looking for: Joseph Bettencourt.

Joseph was a little too tan, a little too ripped, and a little too everything. His teeth were bleached so white they practically glowed like beacons in the dark. He was a little too pretty, and his hair looked artfully casual, even if he probably went to the stylist every fucking week. He was also rumored to be the guy you wanted to talk to if you wanted to get into the know with people who knew people who got your meth so you could fuck boys all night long in a delirium of drugs.

At Van's signal, Deaq and his boy toy had approached Joseph. He tried really hard not to roll his eyes while Joseph cooed to the bimbo for her to call him Joe. Laci had moved onto her all time favorite movies, and Van was wondering if there was a way to get the vodka poured into his ears so he didn't have to listen to that any more.

About thirty minutes later, Deaq gave Van the signal. Which meant it was time for Brando to crash and burn. He pushed a little too hard in terms of what he wanted from the volatile Alexei, who was now well into his bottle of some high end, small batch, Russian vodka, and for his efforts, he got punched.

Which gave him an excuse to head back to the bar, where the bartender gave him a pity shot on the house. He took it, downed it, and then leaned conspiratorially over the bar. Another nice tip, and for the next few hours, he drank water from old fashioned glasses.

As the night wore on, Brando appeared to get drunker and more morose. The music actually did get louder and more trance-inducing. And as Shomari got up to leave with Joseph and their collective twinks in tow, Brando slipped off his stool and crashed into Shomari.

Van grabbed onto Deaq's chest for support and looked up into his eyes, hoping he'd managed to make his own sufficiently unfocused. He began apologizing and babbling in sad, pathetic tones, and Deaq started cooing gentle, reassuring responses. In the background, he could vaguely hear the blonde guy getting huffy and indignant.

A fine performance all around.

Before long, he was being poured into the passenger seat of the Esperante and Blowjob Boy was gone. He had, however, forgotten how seriously it sucked ass trying to play drunk as hell. Flopping around, groaning, crying or coming close to it. Eyeing Deaq hungrily, which was strangely hard to do and had him wishing he'd had a few more shots before switching to water. Over his head, Joseph and His Amazingly Colorless Teeth talked to Deaq about some party the next night down in Laguna Beach and the opportunities there would be there.

Finally, the door to the Esperante was closed with a gentle but solid thud, and Van felt reassured as he heard its engine come to life. By the time Deaq hit second gear, Van felt safe sitting up from the feigned slump.

"Ah, the ingnue lives."

"Ingnue? What's with the fancy French word shit?"

"Hey, you're the one who picked up the brilliant Miss DeZoete who seemed to think her last name was French for sweet."

"You know, when I'm picking up pieces of tail to get me into the VIP, I'm not usually interviewing for IQ scores, since those seem not to register so much with the people who hold the ropes."

The light to the onramp turned, and Deaq shifted smoothly through the gears, braking just before the turn and then accelerating through it. It struck Van that he'd gotten used to being Deaq's partner. That he'd grown accustomed to being paired up with someone who was more than competent at all the shit that sometimes drove Van nuts about random uniformed rookies. It had been so long that Van had pretty much forgotten what it was like to be stuck in a car with someone who didn't know how to drive like his life depended on outrunning something. It seemed a long time ago since he hadn't been behind the wheel of something that did zero to sixty in a time that made the average Porsche Boxster look like a go cart.

"I miss much before I got there to find you getting off with the help?"

"Oh do not go there. Just don't. Joseph is the real deal. Old school. He was so not going to be fooled by the right clothes and a couple of pieces of slang, man. Also, I didn't see you manfully resisting when Laci crawled into your lap and started grinding up on you."

"Yeah, but I didn't make her blow me in the bar."

"I didn't make Michael do anything. I also didn't see you watching her back after you were done with her."

"I made sure that she was poured into a cab and sent on her way. You left--what was his name?"

"Michael. Although he swore he preferred Michaela."

"Yeah, him. You left him where?"

"In the more than capable hands of Robert."

"Robert."

"The waiter who handed you drinks when you walked in. The one, I might add, that you trusted even though you hadn't seen them poured."

"I did so see them poured. Mirror over the bar, baby."

"Whatever. Anyway, Michael's safe, and it's coming up on the time when we turn into pumpkins. You ought to call the boss and check in."

"You don't think she's one of those lesbians who actually gets off on gay male porn, do you? Should I give her details of Michael's `blowjob lips'?"

Huh. Deaq's knuckles were moving past ashy right into white as they gripped the wheel. "Look,   
Van, it's been a long ass night, and I've had to do a lot of shit I didn't want to do. You may find this whole thing a vaguely amusing game, but it's really, really not that funny to me, so could you just shut the fuck up and call Billie already."

Van stopped. They'd taken a detour from light joking to serious somewhere in there, and Van had missed the turn. He could tell from the dead edges in his tone. Van hadn't even noticed and that brought him to a complete halt. "Deaq, man, I'm sorry, I didn't--"

"Yeah, well now you do. So fucking call Billie already--"

He was already dialing the number, the little tones of each button hanging in the too quiet air of the car, top up in a pointless attempt to throw up a barrier against the chill of land stripped of its heat when the sun went down.

**The Next Night, In Laguna Beach . . .**

The part Van couldn't take was the defeated slump of Deaq's shoulders as he leaned against the building while daybreak fought its way through the marine layer. When Billie walked over, beaming with a smile that should have chased the fog away, she placed a hand on Deaq's shoulder. "We made those chumps in vice look about as dumb as they actually are, guys, and for that I cannot begin to thank you enough. So whatever it is that you want for getting this mess cleaned up, you've got it."

"Two days off. Not a call. Not a page. Not even an `oh my God the terrorists are going to blow up the world, so Jack Bauer needs to come in and save us from certain death' kind of an emergency gets either of our sorry asses called in for anything," Van said without missing a beat.

Billie smiled. "Take three. And if any of the very expensive inventory of the Candy Store that involves tires happens to roll off the lot, I doubt it'd be missed until you both came back. It's the least you've earned."

Van smiled back. "Thanks, Billie. I owe you one."

The look on Billie's face was even more inscrutable than usual. "No. No, I think it's me who owes you both something. This was--I didn't expect the case to head this way," she said, glancing sideways at Deaq.

Deaq just shook his head. "Nobody could've known for sure, Billie. Don't sweat it. I will, however, absolutely take you up on the three days of vacation. I need it."

Van watched the way her hand rested in a strangely familiar manner on his shoulder. A way she'd never touched Van. "Take what you need, Deaq. Make sure you take what you need."

**Fifteen hours and forty-six minutes later. . .**

Van finally dragged his sorry ass out of bed and into the shower after a solid eleven hours of sleep that only the just and the dead get. Half-asleep even though his body was up and moving, he tumbled into the bathroom and batted and flailed in the general direction of the shower curtain. Eventually, the stubborn mother fucker gave up fighting him and got out of the way long enough that he could reach the knobs on the wall. A few seconds later, his hand was under the stream as he waited for the water to warm up. By the time it had, he'd woken up enough to manage to turn the actual shower on.

Even better, he managed to climb in and stand under the spray without breaking anything on him or in the apartment. Life was good.

As the water trickled its way down his back, he thought back to everything he'd been through since this stupid case snuck up on him.

In the end, Bettencourt wasn't the mastermind behind the meth. Bettencourt was a sleaze ball, and a queer one, but he reported to Topher Black, who owned a couple of clubs down in the south end of LA County and another couple down in the O.C. Orange County, fuck it all to hell, and how much did he hate that some stupid nighttime soap opera shit had the whole So Cal area   
actually calling it that?

Things had been going according to plan. Deaq and his twink, Michaela "invited" Brando to a thing at a house down in Laguna Beach--some cliff top artsy mansion overlooking the ocean, and it was there that the serious shit went down. The paranoid motherfuckers didn't believe the cover, and all of a sudden Deaq had a hand on his back and was pulling Van in for a kiss, and in the split second before he realized that he was going to have to fucking do this, he thought maybe he understood the look in Deaq's eyes.

He'd fallen into the kiss because he had to. Because the little hairs on the back of his neck told him that the tone in Joseph's voice meant that if he didn't really sell it, he'd be picking bullets out of one of the two of them. Deaq, at least, went for it all the way. They were pressed close, body to body, Deaq's hands on Van's ass, kneading gently. If he hadn't been trapped there, if he hadn't been fighting it just a little, they probably wouldn't have ended up selling it as hard. But the discomfort with it was real, and that made Joseph, the bastard, laugh.

That was fine.

Problem was, it hadn't all been discomfort. It hadn't even been mostly discomfort. It had been mostly about Van worrying that Deaq would figure out that Van was actually enjoying it. Getting off on it. That Deaq would notice how Van leaned into the kiss. Would notice how when Deaq pulled back, Van went with him, toward him, not wanting to let go.

That wasn't the worst of it. After the kiss, Joseph had walked over and moved as if to taste Brando for himself. At which point Shomari put his foot down.

It was all terribly convincing. Too convincing. Van was pretty sure that hadn't been an act. And he needed to figure out why Deaq had protected him like that.

They were men. They were mostly cops, if you squinted and turned your head right, and ignored all the highly illegal things that they really kind of liked doing. Van really hadn't planned on breaking a few more rules of conduct and ethics, and he certainly hadn't thought he was going to be fighting off fantasies about acts that were still illegal in some states. At least, not about Deaq.

**Three hours later. . .**

Van tried really hard to remember the last time he'd been to Deaq's place, and no matter how hard he racked his brain, he came up empty. He'd been to "Deaq's" _places_ any number of times while they were undercover, but not Deaq's own place. He knocked on the door and waited. And waited some more. And kept waiting, and wow was that rude. He knocked again, louder, more forcefully, and complete with a little shouting at the end.

"Man, come on and open up your fucking door, yo."

About two seconds later, Deaq opened the door and stood there, for some reason, looking pissed. "I thought the idea was to have three days off. Can you not count that high, Van? Let me help you out. It hasn't even been one. One is less than three. And I do not care how often that white wanna-be ex-boybander you pretend not to listen to does it, I wish you would stop using the word _yo_. It just sounds wrong on you, man."

Van flashed Deaq his best ingratiating smile. "Got your attention, didn't it? So, you going to let me in, or we going to see how long it takes me to get the neighbors to call the cops on my ass."

Deaq removed his arm from where it framed the doorway and stepped aside. "We are the cops, or did you forget that part? You certainly are some kind of nuisance, so I have no trouble imagining that they'd show up pretty damn fast, but I sure as hell do not want to see anybody else from work here, or in the last three seconds have you forgotten again about the whole `three days off' part?"

Stepping over the threshold, Van moved into Deaq's place. The whole thing was a lot more homey than he'd imagined. He guessed he'd imagined that Deaq would have a spartan, stylish, but basically functional bachelor pad. Like Van did. So he hadn't expected the couch that managed to look good and still be surprisingly comfortable when he sunk into it. "Nice. You ever notice that the high-end shit usually feels like a rock? We need us a couch like this down at the office."

Deaq rolled his eyes and wandered into the kitchen--a small but well organized room just to the left of the living room. "I know you did not drive all the way over here to check out my taste in furniture, Van, so spill whatever bug it is you've got up your ass."

"Scrawny ass, bug up my ass--seem a little obsessed with my ass for a straight guy, don't you think?"

And all of a sudden, Deaq was right there, looming over him, one hand colliding with Van's shoulder and shoving him up against the back of the couch, which felt a lot less fluffy than it had about two seconds ago. "If you've got something to suggest about my masculinity, Van, you'd better just come out and say it. We do not play games with this shit, do you hear me?"

Van managed to free both his hands and hold them up in a gesture of surrender. He shot for innocent, which was sort of a losing battle. Van hadn't been innocent even when he was born.

"Man, no, that's not it at all. I--look, we're supposed to be partners, and." He stopped mid sentence, trying to figure out what he did want to say. "I--I sure as hell didn't want to presume anything, Deaq, but in that bar, that kid--"

"Michael." Deaq's voice was quiet and low. Dangerous. It'd been a long time since Van heard that kind of wariness from Deaq. "He has a name."

"How well exactly do you know this Michael?"

"That, Van, is none of your motherfucking business, so--"

"Look, I'm just saying. I'm your partner, and I sort of thought we were done with the whole gay panic thing after the whole Santa Monicas case, but seeing you as Shomari Jones, nice one by the way on the name--"

Van looked up and saw that despite himself, Deaq sort of nodded and smiled at the compliment about the alias, which was totally one of his weaknesses. Deaq prided himself on those names. He took a deep breath and kept going.

"Look, Brando the Idiot had to say some stuff that I would never say, and I don't care what you did with Michael at all, but I just--I don't want there to be things about my partner I don't know. It has a nasty habit of coming up at bad times for regular cops. We're undercover so often that it can seriously get us killed if I don't know everything."

Van thought back to the startling thrill he'd felt when he'd let himself be dragged into a kiss. The way Deaq's mouth had been bigger, more solid around the edges, more practiced, less hesitant, at this, than he'd expected a man's to be. Or, if he was being really, really honest, than he remembered men's mouths being. It had taken Van a moment to settle into the ways it was different, and how it only slowly dawned on him, distracted as he was by the whole part about kissing a guy where other people could see, not in a back alley, or a dark bar, or a bathroom in the back of a dive. It dawned on him how his hand had kind of come up by itself to rest on Deaq's chest, fingertips stroking over the pec there before he moved up and grabbed onto those exposed biceps, warm flesh hard and tense beneath Deaq's skin. He remembered how he'd held on for dear life. And before he knew what was happening next, he'd rolled his hips forward on sheer instinct--that was his story and he was sticking with it--and holy god, all of a sudden there was evidence between the two of them that they both were liking something about this scene.

Hard evidence that certainly was anything but cold. Hard evidence that throbbed with the pulse of blood running through them both.

About the time Deaq's hands had slid down to Van's ass and kneaded gently, pulling him tighter into the embrace, the cat calls from this Bettencourt guy pulled Van far enough back that he remembered who he was supposed to be, and he practically broke something pulling back for air.

Maybe he wasn't ever going to use this to give Billie shit. He was busy feeling a flush creep up his cheeks and neck and maybe even his ears. Busy trying to figure out what he was looking at in familiar eyes, unable to read a word of it.

This Deaq who had kissed him in front of Bettencourt had held his shoulder in a grip that could have crushed ice. Still at arm's length. There was more distance than that between them now, and something had to be done about it. "Look, I don't like it anymore than you do, man, but we need to talk about this."

Letting go, Deaq moved away and settled into the chair across the coffee table from the clearly matching couch. Buttery orange leather that shouldn't have worked, but did. "There's nothing to talk about, Van. It was a case. We were undercover. We did what we had to do. That's all there is to it."

Van leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "No, man, that's not all there is to it. I know you. Or thought I did. I know the difference between you playing at shit undercover, and this Shomari guy had pieces of you in him, and I'm just kind of freaked out that I'd never seen any of that before. You could have mentioned this whole down low part of yourself--"

Deaq threw his head back, and a wild, reckless cry broke free from his throat. "Right. Because talking about it is exactly what the _down low_ is all about. That would be why us black folks prefer down low to gay. Is that it, Mr. Know So Much? Let me set you straight about a few   
things. My private life is just that. Private. As in, none of your or Billie's or anyone else's goddamn business. It just so happens that the way I stay sane is having a life, like this apartment, which you invaded, that work doesn't fucking touch. And I'm not actually on the down low, you motherfucker. I am perfectly comfortable with who I am. I just don't see why it's any of your business at all, let alone why you get to worry about how I identify. I'm sorry if your little walk on the wild side left you with some sort of sudden awareness of desires you didn't want to admit you had, but you can go find some other person to experiment with. I already have a toaster. I don't really much want or need another one."

Van stood up and walked toward the window. The window was covered in Venetian blinds that weren't so good at keeping out the relentless Los Angeles sun. Shafts of bright light slipped in around the edges, casting stark light into shadowed parts of the room. Would have made for a great shot in a film noir, he thought. Noire et blanche. One of Man Ray's more famous photographs. A white woman caressing a black object up against her face. Okay, so maybe Deaq's little zing about lack of culture got to him and he looked some shit up. So what? That didn't mean anything. Black and white. Contrast. And wow wasn't that just all kinds of appropriate. "I didn't come here to make a novice pass at you, Deaq. And who says you're the only one in the room who isn't a Kinsey 0 and is cool with that? I came by because I was scared. We've been partners for, what, about sixteen months now?"

"Two weeks shy of seventeen months."

"Okay then. I never, ever saw this side of you before. I'm supposed to know you well enough that I can recognize the real you underneath any cover. And this--this part of you--this hypermasculine top who made Michaela's, and frankly Brando's, legs weak--I never fucking saw him coming. This is kind of a little bit bigger than the whole a little bit country shit. And I just don't want-- I mean, man, I just can't go to your family and deliver bad news again because I don't know who the fuck you really are. I can't--I just can't have that on my shoulders again. I don't want to see me make a mistake that gets your ass killed, okay?"

By the time he finished the line, his hands were twitching at his sides, and his voice was making its way diligently up the decibel meter. "Sorry, I just--"

Deaq came over and put a hand on Van's shoulder again. More gently, this time. "No, no, you're right. I just--a lot of people in the past didn't deal well, you know? And also, have you forgotten that stupid ass shit you said about being able to turn lesbians straight? You have got to stop spewing that crap if you expect people to take you seriously."

He turned around to face Deaq. "What makes you think anyone will take me seriously? I'm the son of a fucking con man, Deaq. I mean, sure, I use those skills for good these days, but really. You think I don't know the fights Billie had--hey, wait. Is anybody who works in the Candy Store actually, you know, fully heterosexually inclined?"

Deaq smiled and shook his head. "Apparently not, because you know that little pencil-necked accountant geek--"

"Oh hell no, Hill is as queer as a three dollar bill."

"You can say that again."

"He's as queer as a three dollar bi--"

And then Deaq's hand was over Van's mouth. "Clearly, we need to have a discussion about taking what I say literally."

Van smiled and licked Deaq's palm. Deaq made suitably disgusted noises and started to pull back, but Van reached out and grabbed Deaq's wrist, pulling those fingers closer. He nuzzled his face against them and moved to take one into his mouth. Before he did, he paused and looked up at Deaq's face to make sure everyone was now on board the same train. His other hand landed on Deaq's thigh and began stroking up. Slowly, teasingly. Van got the sense that Deaq didn't want it hard and fast and desperate. He drove with too much deliberation for that. Van had this pet theory: that people tended to fuck like they drove.

"Say it, and I stop, Deaq. Say this is a bad idea. That we work together. That it could get messy."

He smirked. He actually had the fucking balls to smirk. "First of all, I've already seen that sorry excuse for a dive you call your apartment, so I know just how messy you are. And secondly, we're guys, Van. You seriously think we can't fuck and have it just be a fuck?"

Actually, he wasn't at all sure about that--wasn't at all convinced that letting this part of himself out into the light of day wasn't going to mean it would go quietly back into the dark again, but if that's the way Deaq wanted to play it for now, Van could certainly follow that lead. His response was to move his hand up to cover Deaq's cock. Wasn't hard yet. Wasn't even halfway there, but that was the part that Van liked best. The little rush of power and control that came from feeling a man get hard in his hand and knowing he'd done that. He pulled one of Deaq's fingers closer to his mouth, lapping at the warm, soft, slightly sweaty flesh there, and the tang of salt and skin on his tongue made him want to suck the whole thing down, but instead he was patient, deliberate, methodical, and relentless as the sun still creeping in around the blinds. Because Deaq drove like he was calculating speed and torque and drag and resistance in every second before he handled the gear shift, and the image of Deaq's hand gripping the knob forcefully, knowingly, was enough to make the fingers on Van's other hand stroke a little harder. Without another thought, Van cocked his head to the side, exposing his neck, because he remembered, if only barely through the haze of `holy fuck, he's hot in a way I never noticed before', that Deaq's hands and lips and teeth had kept moving abortively towards Van's neck when they'd had to make out in front of an audience to convince this Bettencourt guy that they were for real.

When he felt first the heat of Deaq's breath and then the hint of lips on his neck, Van felt a throb of blood heading south, pooling, filling, plumping things out nicely in his own body, and he moaned a little, a soft, breathy little exhale and said, "Yeah, man. More."

And then there were teeth, sinking hard and sharp into the soft flesh there on the side of his neck, too close to his ear, and he said, "No, lower, not so--" and that was as far as he got before Deaq stepped closer, moved into Van's space, slid his teeth in a scrape down the little hollow behind a muscle on the side of his neck, and settled into the tender spot just where his neck met his shoulder. Van groaned and rubbed his hand a little more slowly across Deaq's jeans, trying not to think too hard about how much he wanted to be touching skin instead of denim. "Yeah, right fucking there."

And then he just needed to let go completely, so he grabbed Deaq's wrist a little more tightly and sucked another finger deep into his mouth, doing his best job to show him every single thing he wanted to do if only he got permission to start undoing the fly on those jeans, and he earned himself a reluctant grunt.

Then Deaq was kissing him, and if he thought the kiss with an audience was hot, hell bent, and unleashed, he'd apparently been deeply wrong. This was full out, redlined, and holy fuck, it felt good. When they broke for air, Van brought his hand up to his lips and rubbed them thoughtfully. "Nice, man, nice."

"You always talk this much when you're trying to get it on?" Deaq asked, a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Van shrugged. "You have actually met me, right? I'm not exactly a quiet guy."

"Huh," Deaq said as he started unbuttoning Van's shirt. "Good thing my walls are soundproofed then, huh?"

A hand slid inside Van's shirt, fingers heading for his nipple, and oh God, was he ready for it. "Fuck, yes."

Deaq leaned closer, and first Van felt warm breath on his ear. Then it was a quick swipe of a tongue that trailed into teeth tugging at his earlobe. "I'm going to make you beg for it, you know."

Really, at that point, Van didn't care. He just wanted. Wanted it all, wanted it now. To drive the point home, he took a step or two backward and slipped out of his shirt and stood there, waiting for Deaq to approach. It took a minute, though, because mostly he just sat there, staring at Van. Assessing. Calculating.

Van liked the thought of that a lot. He ran his hand down his chest, over his stomach, across the front of his jeans, and through them, he started rubbing and squeezing his dick. He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. "So, you going to make sure I get a date with something besides my right hand, or you just going to stand there and watch me get myself off."

When he opened his eyes, he was alone. "Deaq, you motherfu--"

From a distance, he heard Deaq's voice. "You're a detective, asshole. Detect my bedroom."

Van flicked open the button on his jeans, but he wasn't quite ballsy enough to walk naked through the house, so he left his pants on, if undone. Shoes would only be a pain in the ass, so he did pause to talk those off. His feet padded softly on the hardwood floor as he headed down the hallway. Just outside the second door on the left, Deaq's shirt was on the ground.

Van took a left turn.

Inside the bedroom, Deaq was standing in nothing but his jeans next to the bed. "Hey, look at that. Maybe all that Russian vodka left a few functioning brain cells."

Van's response was to undo the zipper of his jeans. "So, what are you into, man?"

Deaq shook his head. "I already told you. I'm going to make you beg for it." The two steps forward he took had all the grace of a big cat stalking its prey. Van slid his jeans off before Deaq got any closer. Standing up, he felt the warmth of a body pressed up against his back, denim scratching down the back of his legs, naked skin pressed against his back. He leaned back into it, tilting his head to the side.

"I like the sound of that, but I'm not there yet." His hand reached back behind him and fumbled its way across the outside of Deaq's thigh, the muscles there tense.

Teeth sank hard into his neck, back in the exact same spot Deaq had bitten him before, and Van twitched all over at the sensation. As Deaq sucked hard on the skin, Van felt a hand slip inside his fly and then to the front of his boxer briefs. He arched into the touch, and Deaq bit harder before pulling away. "You will be."

Van just nodded. He had no doubts.

"Take them off." There was a tone of utter authority in Deaq's voice that sent shivers down Van's spine. He stepped forward, not trusting his ability to do anything so long as they were in contact, so he slipped the jeans off first, and then followed with the boxer briefs. As soon as they hit the   
floor, he was being pushed face down onto the bed. One hand got trapped underneath him while the other flung itself out to catch his fall. And then he felt fingers teasing along the seam   
between the cheeks of his ass, and he groaned. "Fuck, yes."

"Tell me what you want, Van."

"Fuck me."

There was weight on him, and for a moment he tensed up, worried. But it was just Deaq holding him down, his fingers still shy of where he wanted them. "How do you want me to fuck you, Van? Long and slow, or rough and fast. You want me to tease you until you get on your knees and beg for it, or you want me to just take you and ignore what you want entirely?"

All he managed in response was a long wordless groan.

Then he was left there, naked, on his stomach, splayed out on the bed, and he craned his head around to see Deaq standing by the nightstand, waiting impatiently.

It was then that he got his first good look at all of Deaq. And it certainly looked like he was ready to make good on his promise. Van took a deep breath, trying to steady himself at the prospect.

"I'm waiting," Deaq said.

"I haven't done this in a while," he admitted, feeling the blush creep over his face. "But I didn't used to need much."

And with complete trust, he turned his head back and waited. Moments later, something slick and wet slid down toward the place he wanted it to be, and Van shoved backwards off the bed, reaching out for what he needed. A lubed finger, from the feel of it, slid just inside, and Van broke. He was there now. "Fuck, man, more. Inside me. Now."

Deaq laughed, but he complied, and Van's attention narrowed down to just the nerve endings that were screaming for more. The thrill of feeling something breach him, move inside him, the slight twinge of pleasure just the wrong side of pain slowly burning into all pleasure was something he'd managed to block out, almost forget, how much he loved. He groaned and tried to tighten his muscles, drawing him in deeper, but Deaq wasn't moving. Instead, there was heat against his neck again.

"I told you, Van. I want you to beg for it. You have to tell me what you want."

"Move your fucking finger," he said through gritted teeth.

And he did. And holy fuck that felt good. "Yeah, like that. Add another."

A second later, he felt two fingers slip inside, stretching him out, seeking out sensitive spots, and Van was more than happy to oblige with encouragement, even if it mostly came out as a string of incoherent noises instead of words. Desperation made him almost lucid again, just long enough for the words to tumble off his lips. "I'm ready, man. Fuck me now."

And there it was, that moment when he was left open and empty, and he wondered if he had the patience to wait for it to get ever better, whether it would have been better to just get off from Deaq's fingers alone, but then he felt the blunt head pushing up against him. Before it was even inside he could feel the difference; it wasn't nubile like fingers were. He groaned and moaned and said, "Fucking now already." And there was some satisfaction that as he felt that cock push inside him, slipping past one ring of muscle and then the other, he heard Deaq moan, low and guttural, so he knew it wasn't just him who was out of his mind here.

"Hard and rough, Deaq. I mean it. Don't hold back."

"Right answer, Van." The tight edges in Deaq's voice suggested that maybe he couldn't hold back.

And then his world narrowed again. All he was aware of was the way Deaq's teeth sank back into his neck, and Van arched again and moved to meet each thrust, and it was heaven the way his body that had been so reluctant minutes earlier was now hungry to consume every bit of Deaq it could get. The muscles inside him relaxed enough that he could just push up onto his knees and take it, lose himself in the way Deaq became the rhythm of it all. It was so easy to get lost, to do nothing more than feel each moment, that it came up on him all at once. He barely had time to let the yelp slip out of his own throat before he was falling over the edge. It wasn't one of those orgasms where the pleasure didn't live up to the hype. He couldn't do much more than hold on and ride it out. Some tiny corner of his brain could feel Deaq speeding up. A few strokes later, Deaq came, and Van finally had enough rational thought back to be relieved that he didn't actually feel the warm, wet heat spurting inside him, which meant that Deaq had been responsible when Van hadn't even thought to ask. Slowly, winding down, Deaq began to still, and as he did, he slid out and rolled over, flopping down next to Van.

"I think I made a mess on your bedspread," Van offered, meekly.

Deaq just threw an arm over his face and laughed. "You act like you expect me to be surprised about this. I told you already, man. I've seen your apartment. I know what a slob you are."

Van sat up, indignant. "I am not a slob. Just because I'm not some sort of neat freak--"

Pushing halfway up to his elbows and then deciding better of it, Deaq interrupted. "Uh huh. And who isn't in the wet spot right now, huh?"

There were no words. Van just glared at him.

"I'm just saying."

Van continued to glare. Deaq sat up. "You hungry?"

And if Van worried at all that things were going to be weird, he didn't anymore. "I could eat."

"Damn straight you could. I am tired of being the one who does all the heavy lifting on cases."

Van watched as Deaq got up and headed into the bathroom. "Yeah, right. Because you are one buff motherfucker, all right. That's you. Deaquon Hayes, the undercover cop who can go head to head with the muscleheads over at Venice Beach."

Buck naked, Deaq walked out of the bathroom and over to his dresser, digging out a couple clean pairs of underwear and tossing one to Van. "You sure you want to be talking about straight while you're lying freshly fucked in my bed?"

He had a point. He always had a point. And that was maybe why this worked. "So pizza?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of Thai."

"You got a place does decent satay?"

Deaq smiled. "Yeah, I got a place."

At that moment, the comfortable silence was interrupted by two pagers going off. As they dug through the tangle jeans, both men victoriously pulled pagers out, only to look down at them and glare for a second. "Wrong one," Van said, while Deaq just held the pager in his hand out for the swap. After he grabbed his back, Van pushed the button and looked at the readout.

"Fuck me," he said.

Deaq coughed. "Again? Geez, the things that say about white boys must be true."

Van flipped him off. "This better be bigger than bioterrorism or a nuclear weapon or Billie killing another classic Mustang."

Deaq was already slipping into a clean pair of jeans. Van looked pitifully at him until he got tossed his own pair. Of course, then he needed a belt. As they were heading out the door, Deaq said, "You can't actually be surprised we're being called already are you? And also, your car, or mine?"

"Both." Van smirked as he slid into the driver's seat of the Lotus. "Race you. Winner gets to call the shots next time."

"Hey, Van, who said there was going to be a next time?" For a second, Van almost fell for it, but the sound of the Esperante's engine starting up told him all he needed to know. People drove like they fucked, which meant that beating Deaq to the Candy Store was going to be hard. But Van was always up for a challenge, something his partner was always ready to provide.

 


End file.
